The Origins of Flavor Text
by Dax Subtle
Summary: A group of new magic players battle they're way into the grand tournament scene where old faces have recently returned. Aided by massive displays, their matches become shockingly real as their tempers flare and their rivalries grow. *Starts out pretty mundane, if not a little Sci-Fi and very Yu-gi-ohish, but eventually delves into the worlds these cards are inspired by.


A cowled figure strode across the bloody wheat fields. His green and white robes burnt and chewed upon. Though fog dominated every horizon, a solitary copse of trees stood in the distance behind as five peaks rose in the distance before him. Around him prowled a pack of white sharp-eyed wolves and robust lions, with a single tattooed elf surveying their quarry's tracks. Their prey was close, wounded and running.

A distant fog blew away, scattered into nothingness as a new peak emerged. The ground began to shake. The rocks fell from the highlands before them and the wheat fields cracked asunder. The elf cried out and fell into a chasm with the lions. The shifting ground caught the mage and crushed his leg, though not before he uttered a spell and shielded his wolves from the worst of the earthquake. They were consumed in white light, protected from the sharp jutting ridge of rocks.

The mage swept his hand and the fog between them and the base of the mountains parted revealing a long path of tall grass whipping in the wind. The mage pointed and the wolves tore off. They crossed the distance and climbed the rocks surrounding the other mage in retreat, trailing blood from his torn red robes. They collided upon him from many directions, rending into his arms with their teeth, dragging him to the ground. He flinched and a released a many pronged dazzle which cascaded from wolf to wolf and burnt their fur and dropped them among the crags.

"This is truly a spectacular match you're seeing here, ladies and gentlemen. I am here with Thomas Tucker Truckman and, as always, I am Martin Fincher Sassoon," the color commentator spoke out for all the audience to here. "A back and forth of truly epic proportions."

"Indeed," the other commentator added. "A fabulous Chain Lighting top deck from Bjorn Burke to finally drop those very persistent Tundra Wolves of Stanley Short."

"Do you think it was wise for him to Deathward them instead of one of the Savannah Lions, Thomas Tucker?"

"Oh, probably. The Elvish Hunter was not an option and the Wolves would have first-striked through any of the Hurr Jackals that seem to be common in Bjorn's deck. Oh, it looks like Stanley is back up."

The white and green robed mage pulled his foot from the crevice and limped along towards his foe. In the far north, the fog evaporated and more rolling plains revealed themselves.

"Oh, that must be disheartening, to say the least," Martin Fincher Sassoon said. "We know all he's holding is a Disenchant. Not particularly useful at this moment, when he desperately wants another creature to finish the job."

"Right, he's so close, but Bjorn's not far off either. Two Bolts or a Disintegrate and this is over."

"And, Thomas Tucker, we all know how he favors that burn, don't we?"

"Yes, we do."

The fog behind the staggering red-robed mage parted revealing a sixth peak. And then the wind died down and the roaring began. Up from this new mountain, rose the dragon. The monster alighted upon the peak, and gazed around the corpse strewn lands with molten eyes, smoke streaming from between its fangs.

"Oh, my," commented Martin Fincher Sassoon.

"Yes, that would be Shivan Dragon. Probably, Bjorn's favorite creature." Thomas Tucker rifled through files at his station's laptop. "A powerhouse in this day and age to be sure. With it's built-in fire-breathing ability, Bjorn is representing lethal on the field."

The dragon's roar echoed across the terrain, only dimming for an instance as the white and green robed mage glanced back at the single copse of trees behind him. From that distance came a lilting note of whistling song.

The red robed mage pointed at his foe, standing alone in the field. The great wings spread and the dragon soared over the mountains and across the plains. The ground began to shake from its approach and the air heated from the flames now spewing from its lips. The dragon was almost upon him when the whistling song returned. Birds, colorful and tiny, sprung from the distant trees unnoticed, and confounded the beast, halting it in its tracks just short of the rival mage. Flying, looping, spinning around its fangs and claws, the birds distracted the dragon from its target, then a gout of flames and they fell from the air in cinders.

The dragon loomed over the white and green robed mage, absorbed him in its burning orange glare. He fell back and looked up at the creature. Though, from some unknown depths, he called to the black, thundering clouds above him a wind, slight at first, and then stronger. The rain came immediately as thunder cracked, and the dragon's roar drowned out in the howling of the gale. It staggered away, buffeted by hail. Rocks blew and trees uprooted. The white and green robed mage sent spinning around the field. As suddenly as it came, the wind and rain and hail and debris were gone. The dragon stood with broken wing and glared down at the prone form of the barely breathing mage. It bared its teeth, but then jerked. Twisting its slender neck, the dragon viewed back the way to where the red robed mage lain, dead and defeated under a pile of shattered stone and broken wood.

The audience roared, and the massive screen before them flickered and went to static. The screen raised away as the lights came up. From behind it was a lone table, two chairs across from one another. Cameras and laser lights pointed down across the play field from many angles shining pinpoints of green and red and gold. One of the players had already stood, brilliant blond hair and blue eyed, in disgust he had tossed his deck, scattering it across the table's surface disrupting the projection. He glared for a second as blue-shirted judges surrounded the proceedings, and finally stalked away leaving the officials to gather up his cards.

Stan Short faced the crowd and waved at the audience of eighty-something members who had watched from behind the screen wall in the amphitheater now revealed to the play area.

"Well, there you have it Thomas Tucker Truckman, there you have it. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce, Stanley Short has done it," Martin Fincher Sassoon said. He and Thomas Tucker looked over from their booth high above the play area and the crowd now revealed from behind the screen. "He has defeated Bjorn Burke, the out-and-out favorite, last year's winner, to become the Mid-Western Division Champion, with all the privileges that accompany."

"A remarkable turn around," Thomas Tucker offered. "The Birds of Paradise for the block stall off the top deck, then Bjorn not drawing any removal, and then the Hurricane, almost defeating himself and forcing a draw, nowhere near enough to destroy that dragon, but leaving Bjorn at zero life points. Remarkable luck, I tell you."

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, we will see you at the trophy ceremony in just a few minutes. And pass you off to Duke Anderson to see if he can't get a little post match interview with Bjorn Burke."


End file.
